


In the end, so much less can be more than enough

by the_consulting_linguist (xASx)



Series: Johnlock Prompts/Oneshots [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All The Subtext, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Study, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Healthy Relationships, Love Conquers All, M/M, Memories, a little dark, a study in pain and human relationships, after S4E2, implied past trauma -nothing major though, no crazy sister, s4 fix it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-25
Updated: 2018-04-25
Packaged: 2019-04-27 18:58:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14432019
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/the_consulting_linguist
Summary: "'Anyone but you'.And what bloody point did the solar system have, then?He chewed on the inside of his cheek. But of course, he'd been lying. Hadn't he. Looking back, it was impossible to challenge the notion. He had lied. Locked away the very source of sustenance he possessed. Feelings, just any at all, did not matter. But this one, this one did -betrayal or not'You lie, all the time. It's like your mission'.It had been the fear. The fall -and its landing. The blow, and the wedding. The vow, and the bullet. Both bullets. Was his mission of any worth if it needed an explanation to be seen? Lying it was, then".





	In the end, so much less can be more than enough

**Author's Note:**

> This left me raw and crying, but I had to write it. It felt like a very painful redemption, but I am glad I did it. 
> 
> Yes, this is my weird writing style of implying more than I write, but I guess that is the point of this story, after all. Some things up to interpretation are up to you, I love doing that, too, it seems. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this roller-coaster!
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr @theconsultinglinguist

The flat was silent. Tidied. Clean. Unlike what it used to be. Then. _Before_. 

He wandered like a ghost. Eyes taking in the semi-darkness, the shadow of every familiar shape. His feet felt cool against the carpet, bare toes curling into it as he slowly completed a circle around himself. Completed, and settled,; a small flurry of the dressing gown about his calves. Small steps. Small movements. Constrained. A choreography on the edge of the in-between. The space that is no space. Which no one would see. His head tilted to the side. 

Quiet, quiet and dust, dancing solemnly across the fireplace, against the reflection in the mirror. 

_Mrs. Hudson took my skull.  
_

He was holding his breath. 

He was open now, as if his entire body had unfurled, stretching out into a thin sheet. _A sheet with scribbled notes in a steady, trembling hand_. 

He exhaled, carving out a small portion of the void for movement. Fingers twitched. Eyes lingered over the violin stand, caressed the half-drawn curtains. He was a lone beam of light, being absorbed into everything surrounding him. He was indistinguishable. Unseen. In the silent world of semi-darkness that enveloped him, as it so often used to do. 

He wandered, forgotten glass of water in hand. Long fingers brushing over a scratched wooden table. Then. _Before_. _With another weight in his hand_. Which he still wanted to hold. _To have_. A substitute. A reminder;

_Here. Use mine_. 

Drifting away, he trudged until he could squint at the circle of paint on the wall, at the smile permanently contained within it. Watching him. It changes you. The same smile following his steps. When his arms weren't empty. When they were. When he stopped dancing. Now. 

He glanced outside. If only there was some other source of turmoil than that inside of him. There wasn't. Apart from the sickly yellow lights. _Illuminating a figure walking with an angered stride. Away from him. To somewhere else. Someone else  
_

His jaw worked. It was not long before he knew what was the issue with it. With the solar system. The orbits. The sun chased the universe. The earth chased the sun. The moon chased the earth. No one chased the moon. 

In orbit. Caught. Bound.

_Conductor of light._

Projecting. All his life. Projecting. 

He swam away through the silence. Set the glass on the table. He wished for many things, growing up. Until he reached the age when he only wanted to understand. The why more than the how. Ironically. _What people think.  
_

Deny. Deflect. 

It was always easier with his armour on his back. Until he realised it was only double the weight. Both the shards and the wall that should have kept them out. 

_Freak._   

There was much more in this complex web of how and why. Instances committed to oblivion. Instances that failed to make a mark. And yet instances that shaped the whole. The distilled pain of what he did remember. Of the hole in his chest -second hole, in his chest. 

Sometimes it was too much. Usually before he knew it. He'd be walking, and his next step would crack the ice, and send him sinking. Drowning always was sly. You cannot scream for help with water in your lungs. 

He wondered if he would ever be free from it. If it would ever reach a peak, or a depth. He rubbed his arm with his other hand, and stilled once more.  

The armchair. 

_Blocking the view to the kitchen._ The Second Time, he had kept it. But then again, the second time had been permanent. 

_Anyone but you.  
_

And what bloody point did the solar system have, then? 

He chewed on the inside of his cheek. But of course, he'd been _lying_. Hadn't he. Looking back, it was impossible to challenge the notion. He had lied. Locked away the very source of sustenance he possessed. Feelings, just any at all, did not matter. But this one, this one did -betrayal or not. 

_You lie, all the time. It's like your mission_. 

It had been the fear. The fall -and its landing. The blow, and the wedding. The vow, and the bullet. Both bullets. Was his mission of any worth if it needed an explanation to be seen? Lying it was, then. The feeling mattered to no one but himself. 

 His shoulders shook. It was gradual, from a light tremor, to a jolt in his entire torso. Crying never came naturally to him. It was always torn from some deeper part inside of him, rising through his chest like the tide. There were no tears. There seldom were. 

"Sherlock?" 

Every other movement ceased, and he curled into himself in defense. 

"Hey, are you alright?" 

There was a pause, and then the tip-tap of bare feet against the floor. A warm palm pressing against his waist, a sleepy face with worried, drowsy eyes peering at him from the side. 

"Yes. I'm sorry. I just... I got a little lost". 

His own eyes darted away. From the tousled silver hair, the wrinkles around a very familiar pair of lips, the forehead creases that deepened at his reply. 

"Why, love?" 

A pause. A beat. 

"Why now?" 

His voice was hollow, another haunted shadow amidst the others. 

Pause. Beat. 

The body beside him shifted. Not drawing away. Just readjusting, with an arm around Sherlock's waist, and his head below his shoulder. 

Pause. Beat. 

"I don't know". 

There was a sigh, and the grip on him tightened. 

"I truly don't know, Sherlock..."

His body stiffened, and he bit his lip as he stared away, without seeing. He could feel his muscles hardening, seething. 

"I only know I love you". 

Sherlock's shoulder's gave a little, but the tremor in his chin did not subside. 

John brought both arms around him. Carefully. As if gathering a frightened bird to his breast. Only it was him that did the nestling in the end. He buried his head in Sherlock's chest, cheek against the white t-shirt that smelled of cinnamon and sleep-sharp sweat, and a little bit of cheap white soap. 

"It's a mess, isn't it? A proper bloody mess", he said, almost contemplatively. Above him, Sherlock nodded minutely. 

"It won't go away just like that. For you, or for me. I know..." 

Sherlock exhaled sharply through the nose, but turned his head to rest his cheek on top of John's silver head. 

"I know it's nothing on its own -not now. But is it a start? That I love you?". John's voice faltered the tiniest bit, and Sherlock felt his body melt around him. 

"It's not enough now, but... Can it be enough some day, Sherlock? Can I try to give you that?" 

The tide in his chest swelled again, clogging his throat. "Yes", he breathed, raising his arms to hold John back against him. The shorter man's body shuddered and softened, as if wanting to merge with him. Sherlock closed his eyes. 

They breathed with each other's breath, soothing hands rubbing down a spine every time a sob or shiver rose in either of them. 

"Come to bed..." 

"Yes" 

John smiled a little, a tight-lipped, hesitant smile, as he broke away and took Sherlock's hand in his. And then looked away, jaw muscles working, a frown over his eyes. 

"John..."

"Mm?" 

"I love you, too". 

The slow smile, of relief and fondness, and honey-thick melancholy that bloomed onto the thin lips glimmered like a candle's flame against the darkness. 

Sherlock raised his free hand and cupped John's cheek, peering into the deep-sea eyes with a soft, tormented smile of his own. In the end, there is only so much one can say, so much one can heal. In the end, so much less can be more than enough.   

"Come to bed..."

A beat. A breath.  

"Yes" 


End file.
